Bloodshed
by grace-adalyn
Summary: One-shot..could turn into more? Reader is best friends with Sherlock and John but is withholding a secret from them that could end in blood being shed. Please review!


**A/N: Hello all! It's been a while since I've posted on here…school, work, internship, etc. Anyways! My fiance and I have recently gotten into Sherlock and I just became addicted very, very quickly. It wasn't hard really..have you seen Cumberbatch? And Martin is just perfectly…amazing. They're both such amazing actors and it just draws a person in so terribly fast. Anyways, on with the story!**

 **WARNINGS: Although this is about the reader being in an abusive relationship, I am in no way, shape, or form romancing an abusive relationship. If anything, I'm encouraging the idea of support while in an abusive relationship. Also, I want to apologize beforehand if I offend anyone. I've never been in a physically abusive relationship, just verbally. So I don't know exactly what a person in that situation is thinking. I am merely going by my experience alone. So please, excuse my ignorance.**

 **This may or may not get graphic, so it might contain POSSIBLE TRIGGERS (I put that in caps bc I know some of you won't read this note because it's so incredibly long/sorry about that btw) but I want people to see the POSSIBLE TRIGGERS warning. Also contains cursing, violent intentions, and fluffiness.**

You were shaking as you slid on your never worn, almost brand new black turtleneck that had been sitting in your closet for you didn't even know how long. It seemed to scream out, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON'T NOTICE ME.

You winced when you saw the dark bruise already beginning to form around your ribs, and quickly pulled your sweater down, not wanting to see it any longer. With quivering hands you fixed the neck on your sweater, shaping it around your neck so it sufficiently covered up the dark hand prints. Taking a deep breath you stepped back taking at look at yourself, and the sight of your pitiful looking form almost made you start crying again.

Your (e/c) eyes were wide and looked shell shocked…empty almost. Your face was deathly pale to the point where you looked terribly ill. Your lip was bleeding from being busted open, and you forced yourself to relax your mouth; you had been squeezing your lips together and the cut was stinging painfully. You scowled when you saw the quickly darkening bruise forming on your cheek, and you quickly fumbled for your makeup, applying the foundation generously and gently, flinching every time you touched the bruise.

When you were done you took a look at yourself again, nodding your approval. You almost looked normal again; color was back in your cheeks and the bruise was non existent; oh the magic of makeup. You almost looked put together again if it wasn't for the fact that your hands were still shaking. You slowly turned them into fists, nails digging into your palm sharply, trying to gain some semblance of control.

Your eyes kept burning, indicating the strong need to just…cry. To cry and cry for hours until there would surely be no tears left. You were terribly frightened and distraught of course..but the burn for tears meant much than that. You were angry..no! You were furious. Seething almost. But not with your abuser. No, you were disgusted with yourself. How could you have let it get this far? Why would you do this to yourself? Don't you know that you don't deserve this? What would your mother think?

What would Sherlock and John think?

 _Weak._ You cringed at the word that had suddenly popped in your mind, shaking your head as if physically willing it away. That was your biggest fear after all; that they would see you as nothing more than a _weakling._ Not even able to defend yourself. Not strong enough to stop the abuse or get away from it. You pretty much brought it on yourself; you didn't know that he was abusive when you met him of course, but you should've left when it happened the first time. Better yet, you should've seen the signs from the beginning. For fuck's sake your best friend was Sherlock Holmes! You'd been with him long enough to deduce the signs of an abuser. Why didn't you see it?!

Under no circumstances could John and Sherlock find out about this. Sherlock would believe you to be an imbecile; not even worth a second more of his time and he would surely do away with you as soon as he found out. He would never want to be friends with someone as pathetic as you. Meanwhile John….oh John. John and his bleeding heart would look at you with pity; those damn puppy dog eyes of his would look at you with something akin to a parent's disappointed gaze on their child after they've done something shameful. You would never be able to look at them again, not that they would want you to. You would have to separate yourself from them, maybe move to a different part of town…get a new job, a new flat not as close to there's. You would–

 _Nevermind I'll find..someone like youuuuu…_

You jumped, the sweet melody of Adele forcing you out of your depressing thoughts. You fumbled around for your phone, trying to remember where you had tossed it. You finally found it on the floor by the edge of the couch, looking at the caller ID before answering.

"H-Hello, John," you greeted, cursing when you stuttered. "Hey (y/n)." You breathed a sigh of relief internally when you realized he hadn't noticed. "I was wondering before you came by if you could pick up some dinner beforehand? I would do it but I knew you were coming over soon so I figured you wouldn't mind."

"Yeah, no problem," you answered, already grabbing your things. "Anything in particular?"

"You can just go by that Italian restaurant if you like? You know our normal." "Mmhmm," you answered as you headed out the door. "Anything for Sherlock? I'm sure he hasn't eaten in a few days."

"No, he hasn't," John agreed. "And he's going to eat tonight whether he likes it or not!" he shouted away from the phone towards Sherlock. "I don't eat while I'm on a case John!" you heard Sherlock argue in the background. You shook your head fondly as they went back and forth with each other. Finally, John came back on the phone sighing and muttering under his breath. "Bloody stubborn git…Anyways, thanks (y/n). I'll pay you back if I need to," he finished lamely, already knowing what you were going to say.

"I would never take your money," you told him, like you always do, every time you buy dinner for them or pay for a cab, etc. "I know..I know," he sighed. "Just thought I'd offer. Anyways, we'll see you in a bit then." "Bye," you finished, hanging up, but not before you heard Sherlock berating John about dinner again. You put your phone in your back pocket with a smile on your face, heading towards the restaurant.

You quickly pushed your way into 221B, huffing and puffing under your breath as you tried to maneuver your way up the stairs with the food. You didn't even glance up at Sherlock and John as you passed by, going straight to the kitchen. "Hello John, Sherlock," you greeted, sweeping inside. John returned your greeting happily, Sherlock merely grunted. "John, I know you go back and forth with your normals, so I just got you the ravioli. I hope that's alright."

You started laying the food out on the counter, separating everything. Not even flinching at the dismembered fingers laying on the counter, you softly pushed them to the side to make room. You were more than used to Sherlock's… experiment supplies by now. "Thanks a lot (y/n)." John said, getting up to help you. "I'm bloody starving," he sighed, opening the containers to find his meal. Exclaiming happily when he finally found his prize, he grabbed his container, kissing you on the cheek in thanks.

Unfortunately, his lips landed directly on your well hidden bruise, making you unconsciously flinch. John noticed..of course he noticed. He might've not been a consulting detective but he was still remarkably perceptive. He stepped back instantly, his eyes quickly turning concerned. "What's wrong?" he asked, looking at your face for the cause of your discomfort. You cursed at yourself in your head; you've only been here for two minutes and they're already suspicious. "Nothing really. I just fell out of bed last night and hit my cheek on the corner of my bedside table." It was a pathetically weak excuse and you knew it. John definitely knew it. His eyes narrowed at the obvious lie. "I bruise easily," you finished weakly, cringing inside.

You turned quickly around away from John, wanting to be far away from this particular conversation. "So Sherlock, what've we got going for us tonight?" you asked, desperately trying to distract John from his ever inquiring eyes.

Sherlock sighed, sounding dreadfully bored. "Just your everyday murder. Nothing interesting at all." ( **A/N: I know, that was weak..but I didn't want to get into the details of the case because this is not about the case!)**

You hummed in reply as you started making the tea. You were American ( **A/N: sorry! couldn't resist)** and preferred your tea sweet and with plenty of ice. When you first got over here you couldn't stand their idea of "tea"; however, you quickly forced yourself to acquire a taste for it as you realized that tea was rather an important part of the culture here and couldn't really be avoided. It soon became a soothing activity for you; making and sipping your tea. Pretending to be proper and all that.

You busied yourself with the water, humming under your breath to yourself.

"Why are you wearing a turtleneck sweater?" Sherlock suddenly inquired. You stopped, your breath catching. "What do you mean?" you asked, proud of your somewhat steady voice. You turned around to face the voice, watching as Sherlock got up from the couch, slowly walking towards you and John, who was watching the two of you as he leaned against the counter with his food. "I've known you for three years. You have never, even on the coldest days, worn a turtleneck. In fact I recall you telling me a few months after we met that you despised the things." His eyes ran over your form a couple times, and you knew that he was quietly deducing you. You started panicking, your heart pounding painfully in your chest.

"H-haven't you guys been outside? It's bloody cold," you added, hoping that the curse word would get them to crack a smile. They seemed to always like it when you used British vocabulary, finding it somewhat endearing. This time however, when you said it, flashing a weak smile at them, they did nothing. They just continued watching you, trying feverishly to break your already fragile facade.

"It's not that cold outside (y/n)," John jumped in. "And even if it was, Sherlock's right. You've never worn a turtleneck. Because you enjoy the cold. The most we've seen you in is a heavy jacket."

Before you could defend yourself, Sherlock jumped in, his voice low. "Your palms are sweaty, your hair is frizzy like you've been running your hands through it, you're jumpy and stuttering and I don't even have to take your pulse to know that it's more sporadic than a rabbit's right now."

Hearing their tone, you felt a rush of annoyance hit you. Why the hell did they have to be so…so..them! Why couldn't they just be normal for once and not notice every little action you made? It was none of their business if you wanted to wear a damn sweater or not; you were a grown woman and if you wanted to randomly wear a sweater you could, and you said as much. "I just wanted to wear a sweater," you snapped at the both of them. "Get off my back, the both of you!"

They stopped suddenly, looking at you surprised. It wasn't too often that you snapped at them; in fact you had only done it twice in all the time you've known them. One of them was towards Sherlock, because well, he's bloody Sherlock. And the other occurred because it was your monthly and you were testy and hurting from cramps.

When they didn't say anything and just continued staring at you, you huffed angrily, trying to shove your way past Sherlock. You needed time to think and collect yourself before they–

You cried out suddenly, a burst of pain running through your side. When you had swept past Sherlock, he reached out and grabbed your arm trying to stop you. Having swept yourself into the tortures of your own thoughts already, you didn't notice and kept walking, causing your bruised side to react painfully with the sudden stretching.

Sherlock let go of you instantly, like you were on fire. You took a deep breath in, trying to will the already forming tears away from your eyes. When you looked up, Sherlock and John had two very different expressions on their face. John was looking at you with a high amount of concern, his eyes gentle, but relaying a certain amount of hesitance as well, as though he didn't really know where to go at that point. Sherlock…you quickly looked away from Sherlock's eyes; they were too much. Sherlock's eyes were dark and quickly turning angry as they flew over your body again, making deductions quicker than you could think to stop him. "I…" you started and then stopped, not knowing what to say. There was no use in lying any more. "Let me see," Sherlock started, his voice deceptively calm. You shook your head back and forth, your mind going in panic mode. Sherlock stepped towards you and you quickly stepped back, trying desperately to get far away from him and his dangerous deductions.

He stopped suddenly, watching you leap away from him. You saw a quick flash of hurt in his eyes, making you feel slightly guilty. You didn't have time to think on that though because his eyes turned determined, and then he was coming towards you again. You walked backwards away from him, your breath becoming heavy now. John noticed the mounting situation and he stepped forward quickly towards the both of you.

"Sherlock.." he started, a warning in his voice. Suddenly, you felt yourself falling. You had stumbled over your damn shoes that you had thrown off automatically when you arrived at the flat. That decision was cursing at you now. Before you hit the ground, you felt a strong but gentle arm wrap around your waist, stopping your decent towards the ground. As gentle as Sherlock's grip was, it still hurt your bruised side, and you couldn't help but let out a low moan of pain under your breath. Hearing you, Sherlock didn't hesitate before yanking up your shirt, making you freeze.

You heard Sherlock and John's sharp intake of breath, and you shook, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. You didn't want to see their pity and disgust. As you started to shake, you felt a very light touch on the edge of your bruise. Not being able to help yourself, you looked up into Sherlock's eyes. Instead of looking disgusted with you, he just looked…sad. The both of you looked into each others eyes for a second, and you felt as though you could lose yourself in his gaze. "Why didn't you tell me," he simply asked, his eyes almost..hurt?

"I…I didn't want you to be disgusted with me," you said quietly, trying to pull yourself away from his grip. He simply held you tighter, but not too tight. Just trying to make sure you didn't flee again.

"We could never be disgusted with you (y/n)" John spoke up for the both of them, his normally pleasant voice filled with something..not as pleasant. You had a feeling it wasn't towards you though. "How long has this been going on?" he questioned. You gulped, looking away pitifully. "Long enough," you answered.

Neither of them answered you. Sherlock merely stared while John came over assessing your side, silently switching to doctor mode. "Looks like they're severely bruised," he said lowly. "They're going to need to be wrapped or they'll get much worse." He sighed then, stepping back away from you, now standing side by side with Sherlock. "Go on then." He gestured towards you, and then shoved his hands in his pockets. You winced; you knew he was agitated when he did that. "Show us the rest of them," he finished.

"What?" you questioned, looking back and forth at them. Sherlock still hadn't said anything; he just stood there watching you. "Don't what me (y/n)," John said, his voice cutting. "I know you have more injuries. Show us. Now." You gulped, hearing his sharp tone. You hesitated for a second, then slowly started moving past them over towards the sink, feeling their heavy gazes on you the entire time. You turned the faucet on, grabbing a rag. You gently started wiping off your makeup, flinching every time it touched your bruised cheek. You took off your lip gloss that had managed to cover up your lip as well. When you were done, you took a deep breath, and turned towards your boys.

When you turned around to face them, your breath hitched. Both of their eyes, even John's, were incredibly dark with anger. John balled his hands up into fists as they started to shake. Sherlock started pacing back and forth. You just stood there, your gaze now on the floor like a guilty child.

"That's not all," Sherlock imported, sighing. "All of it (y/n)." "I don't know what you m-mean," you stuttered out. Suddenly Sherlock was in your space, and although he was gentle, his voice was fierce. "I mean," he started, and yanked down the neck of your sweater. "Your neck," he finished, his voice shaking now. Their were very distinct fingerprints all around your neck. It was more than obvious what had happened. Sherlock gently touched your neck, but pulled back when you flinched. He continued looking at your neck, and the dark bruises marring your skin, before his eyes became almost black, and then he was pacing again. You noticed his body was imperceptibly shaking, like it didn't have a choice but to shake; like something inside of him was slowly making it's way to the surface.

"I'm going to fucking kill him," John suddenly stated vehemently. His voice was hard. He had quickly gone from doctor mode into soldier mode. "John, you can't," you argued, your voice small and panicked. "And why the bloody hell not?!" he shouted, making you flinch.

Sherlock stopped pacing, staring at you with those damn eyes of his. "John. Calm yourself," he said suddenly, surprising both yourself and John.

"Calm down?!" John said incredulously. "Calm down? Our best friend has come in here beaten and bruised because some fucking cock has decided to use her as a substitute punching bag and you want me to calm down?" His voice at this point was shaking with rage, and not being able to help yourself, your body reacted to his tone of voice.

"John, you're scaring her," Sherlock simply replied, his voice low and calm. He was right; you were shaking and quivering and the tears were steadily pouring down your face. You didn't mean to; you know that John and Sherlock would never hurt you but you couldn't help it. Your body now went into panic mode when you were yelled at. You had the strong urge at that moment to either run away or throw a punch.

John stopped suddenly, seeing that Sherlock was right, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. "Bloody hell," he whispered, his voice tight. He ran a hand over his face, drawing in a deep breath.

"Right," he said, his voice low. He walked towards you calmly, his hands faced palm up towards you; like he was calming down a scared animal. "I'm sorry for scaring you love. Can I take a look at you then?" he asked quietly, his voice calming and doctor like again. You nodded, stepping towards him hesitantly. He smiled at you sweetly, tilting your face around to see the damage. "Your jaw doesn't look broken, just severely bruised," he commented. "You'll just need some ice to put on it to take the swelling down." You nodded, looking up at Sherlock. "I'm sorry," you told him, your voice low and shy almost.

He didn't comment on your apology. He simply stepped closer to you, looking into your eyes; capturing your attention completely. It wasn't common for Sherlock to focus completely on anything apart from a case. His gaze was overpowering for you, but you forced yourself to continue looking at him. He finally spoke, his eyes almost pleading with you to listen. "You are not weak," he began, his voice strong. Your mouth opened slightly in shock. He continued, "Neither John or I believe you to be as such, and we never have. You are the strongest individual we know. The most loyal, the most trusting, the kindest and most sharp witted person we know." You were probably gaping at this point; shocked beyond belief. Was this the same Sherlock?

"Furthermore," he continued. "I would never believe this situation to be your fault. This is not. your. fault.

We are not disappointed in you, we are not disgusted with you. You are not beneath us and never will be." You looked down at the ground for a moment. He gently grabbed your chin making you look up at him. "You never need to be afraid to tell us anything. Ever. Especially out of fear of rejection. John would never reject you. I would never reject you," he stated slowly, making sure the words sunk into my brain. "The next time someone is hurting you, you need to tell us immediately. Do you understand?" He made sure the two of you were making complete eye contact with each other when he said this, and you nodded, your mouth very dry. He lifted his hands towards your face, and, very un-Sherlock like, gently wiped the few remaining tears away.

He stepped away from you, letting you go completely. He started walking back towards the living room. "Now, I think John has some pain killers for you to take." I opened my mouth, ready to argue. Without turning around, he stopped you before you could get a word of argument out. "DON'T. You will be taking the pain killers (y/n) or so help me God John and I will hold you down and force them down your throat."

You closed your mouth, probably resembling a flopping fish, and looked to John helplessly. "Don't look at me love," he said shaking his head. "I'm with him." John went to go get the pain medication he had tucked away in his room.

When he returned he walked up to you holding his cup of tea and the medication. He held them out to you expectantly. You sighed in defeat, taking them from his hand, swallowing them down with the tea. You grimaced at the taste. "That's a bloody awful combination," you said under your breath. Both of them heard you and cracked a smile at your British curse.

"Those pills will make you tired so I want you to go lie down and get some rest. Let your body heal," John ordered. You just nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted without the help of the pills. You were so..relieved. So incredibly relieved that they hadn't rejected you. That they were absolutely disgusted with you. You started walking towards the living room to lay down on the couch, because where else were you supposed to sleep? This wasn't your flat, although you were over enough for it to be.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked right before you laid down. You looked up at him questioningly. "I'm…I'm laying down?"

"Take my bed." he said turning away from you. "Wh-what? Why?"

"Well you can't very well sleep on an uncomfortable couch with your ribs bruised as they are can you?" he reasoned, looking at your blushing face. "R-right. Of course."

You walked over to Sherlock's door putting your hand on the knob. You turned around and looked at the both of them with teary misty eyes. "Thank you both," you started, your voice shaky. "I don't know what I'd do without the both of you."

The both of them smiled at you genuinely and sweetly and you smiled back, finally slipping into Sherlock's room to take a well deserved rest.

At this point, John looked to Sherlock. He watched as a transformation took place over him. When (Y/n) shut the door completely, John watched as Sherlock's eyes darkened to the point of blackness, his body started shaking a great deal more than before, and his body tensed up to snapping point. John was expecting him to burst any moment now. However, he didn't; he just stood there, waiting.

Sherlock waited until he heard the creak of the bed, indicating that you were indeed in bed, before jumping into action. He quickly grabbed his famous coat, swinging it on. "Sherlock, where are you going?" John questioned; although he was sure he already knew. He didn't need Sherlock's deduction skills to figure that out.

"I think it's time we pay Mr. Gaston a visit," he answered darkly, not even looking at John as he started heading down the stairs. His voice was almost a growl, and for a second, just for a split second, John felt sorry for the man.

And then it was gone.

John simply nodded, throwing on his coat as well. He followed after Sherlock, allowing his mind to focus on what had happened to (Y/n).

Normally, John would object to violence. However, these weren't normal circumstances. This involved (y/n). And that alone, made up his mind.

There would most certainly be blood shed tonight.

 **A/N: and there we are! Alright..it's plenty safe to say that this little story got away from me. Actually, to put it more accurately..John and Sherlock got away from me. They reacted as they wanted to. I had absolutely no control over their actions. Now, in saying that…the both of them might've seemed a little OOC..especially John. However I don't think so…if you look back at Sherlock, John isn't as sweet as people seem to believe. He's somewhat quick to anger, and although he tries to avoid it, is in no way afraid of violence.**

 **This probably leaned a little bit more towards Sherlock romance..but really the reader is only supposed to be a very close friend of both Sherlock and John. Hence John's endearments which I found to be very sweet. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! I can also do a Part 2 if anyone asks for it. I know I kind of stopped at a weird point. thanks for reading!**

 **PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY..REVIEW! I NEED REVIEWS LIKE SHERLOCK NEEDS A CASE!**

 **batman out.**


End file.
